Rough Stock

Book 1

Excerpt

Chapter One

Seth Barlow tugged his jacket collar up a little higher to shield him from the biting wind and hoped no one else had to die.

It was March 1st but there was still heavy snow on the ground. Seth’s horse, Choctaw, struggled for decent footing on hard-packed snow, a constant reminder of January’s blizzard. Seth was last in their short trail line, as befitted his position as the middle child. Funny how the Barlows always seemed to order themselves that way, without thinking—oldest to youngest. Walker and Austin were ahead of him. Court and Sawyer, his two younger brothers, would have been behind him, but they were taking the long way around, over the eastern plain, looking for the rest of the herd.

High up on the mountains ahead of them, dead trees, charred from old forest fires, littered the ground. There was a cycle here, normally, one of constant death and renewal, but harsh weather over the last five years, freezing winters followed by long droughts, had locked Wyoming—and Snake River Ranch—into a persistent, unescapable cycle of death upon death, with no renewal in sight. The order of things had been upset. The natural balance destroyed. The cycle arrested.

Seth would never say it aloud, never tempt God in that way (even though Seth was still raw at Him, over Mom, over Dad) but he honestly felt that they were due for some luck, for the wheel to finally turn and start things going their way for a change.

They were coming upon the Snake River, which, true to its name, snaked its way through the valleys and plains and carved a path through the Grand Teton Mountains that loomed above them. The spring runoff was severe, churning up white froth as the frigid water rushed past. Small ice floes still held fast at the water’s edges, refusing to melt even in the full sun. This year’s bad winter had charged in like a buffalo and even now refused to leave.

They had to cross. They all knew it. Seth prayed that no one took a plunge now.

Walker and Austin were ahead, with Walker—as always—taking the lead. He was older than Austin, by a whole three minutes, and Walker never seemed to let Austin—or any of them—forget it. They were twins only in that they’d once shared a womb. Beyond that they seemed to have little in common. They didn’t even look alike, not identical anyway. They had the same trademark Barlow-dark features, brown eyes and hair, skin a golden deep tan even in winter, owing to their half-Vaquero heritage. But where Walker was calm, deliberate, self-controlled, Austin forged ahead, having calculated the same risks, and usually deciding to take the plunge anyway.

At the river’s edge, Seth waited, silently, taking note of the high water. “Is it going to snow?” he asked Austin quietly, after nudging Choctaw closer to his older brothers.

Walker looked away. He hated bad news.

Austin raised his face to the sky then looked at Seth. “No,” he said firmly.

Seth might have worried it was a lie, told just to make them feel better, but the relief in his older brother’s voice was practically palpable. It was over. Thank God. No more storms; no more deaths. And hopefully no accidents as they were about to cross the Snake. The tension in the entire group faded just a bit. They couldn’t survive another blow, probably not even a dusting at this point.

Austin volunteered to go first, to set the line, no surprise there. It wasn’t that he was reckless really, or a fool, at least Seth didn’t think so, but Wyoming was a wild land, their part of it anyway, a land of extremes, and Austin had seemed to internalize that somehow.

Secretly, Seth thought Austin was more in tune with the land than any of them, better able to understand it and thus predict its moods. Back in October, Austin had said they were in for yet another hard winter. Everyone believed him, though at the time they couldn’t have guessed how hard. Their herd had already been culled to practically nothing these days, barely enough head with enough meat on their bones to keep the lights on even before that last storm.

The Barlows had had enough. They had been dragged to the brink. Their way of life was in danger of evaporating before their eyes. For over a hundred years Barlows had owned this land, worked it, lived in harmony with it, even despite its frequent discordant notes. Theirs was one of the last, large, open range spreads in Wyoming. Losing the land was unthinkable. They’d worked too hard, suffered too much, poured too much of their own blood into the earth to let it slip through their fingers now.

“I’ll set the line,” Walker argued and kicked his horse to the tree closest to the bank. Nero, Walker’s white gelding, gave no argument as they made their way closer to the river. That was Walker, the first born, the leader.

Seth was simultaneously grateful and irritated with his oldest brother. Walker was in control of everything, always hogging the reins. He had been that way their whole lives, and would continue to be in the future, especially now, Seth guessed.

Walker would also be the first one to die, assuming all the risk, without complaint, to keep them safe. He tied his rope around the base of the tree, knotting it securely before slipping his leather gloves back on. Then, turning Nero toward the Snake, he urged the horse along steadily, feeding the rope out behind him.

Seth held his breath as horse and rider stepped off the bank and into the frigid water. The normally sure-footed quarter horse stumbled, clearly having misjudged the drop.

Walker remained calm though. He loosened his grip on the reins and grabbed the saddle horn instead, giving Nero his head. The only thing left to do was to trust the horse to see them safely to the other side. The churning water nearly covered Walker’s waterproof boots as Nero picked his way across.

Austin urged his horse a bit closer to the edge and Seth already had one hand wrapped tightly around a reata, ready to throw the rawhide rope around his brother quicker than a snake striking if Nero stumbled and Walker went into the drink. With no anchor line yet set to grab, if Walker fell out of the saddle, he’d be swept away instantly by the rapids.

Here was someone Seth might be able to save.

If he had to.

But he hoped he didn’t have to.

His hopes were dashed almost immediately when Nero slipped again and both Austin and Seth kicked their horses forward instantly. Nero went down, plunging Walker into the freezing water up to his waist. The eldest Barlow still had the presence of mind to shout out, “Stay back!” to the two brothers who were already riding to his rescue. They both ignored him, but Seth was closer. He kicked Choctaw with a simultaneous shout and the trail horse exploded into the water, a full-length ahead of Austin.

He dropped the reins, letting his horse control their charge, and gathered the slack of his reata in his left hand while he drew back his roping arm. He ignored the bone-chilling water as it splashed over him and with a sharp flick of his wrist, he sent the hand-made rawhide rope whipping through air.

No one else was going to die.

Seth’s aim was true and the rope caught Walker around his extended arm as he reached in vain for his saddle horn. Seth yanked it back and the reata went taut a split second before the eldest Barlow lost his seat entirely and plunged into the water.

Tightening his grip, Seth held on for dear life, even if it wasn’t his own. Walker was swept across the water, right in front of him. Thankfully, Choctaw, a veteran trail horse of the open range, managed to put on the brakes just before they slammed into him.

Seth hauled his older brother back and when Walker was finally close enough, Seth wrapped the reata around Choctaw’s saddle horn to free up his left arm. He reached out for Walker, who missed grabbing him on the first try but found a hold on the second. Hauling the more than 200 pound man up out of the water was difficult, impossible really, and Seth only managed to get a tight hold on him before deciding to get him as close to shore as possible.

Praying he didn’t lose his grip—or Walker didn’t pass out—he nudged Choctaw across the Snake, half-dragging Walker along beside them. Austin had come up along the other side at this point and reached for Walker’s leather belt. Not the most elegant way to save a man’s life, but Walker was in no position to complain.

They left Nero to find his own footing and once he did, the white gelding clambered the rest of the way across the river and up the frozen slope of the bank, staying close to the group.

Once they were on flat ground, Austin held Walker up as Seth released him, jumped from Choctaw’s back, and went to help. Propping the soaking wet man up, it was Austin’s turn to dismount. When he got to them, Walker held out the loose end of the nylon rope that he’d somehow managed to hang on to. Austin took it and tied it around the nearest trunk. The line now crossing the Snake River drooped quite a bit, sagging in the middle in its arc over the water, nearly touching the surface of the rapids. Not the best defense against drowning, but it was all they had. They still had to come back, after all.

Seth helped Walker to a fallen tree and the giant of a man slumped onto it, shrugged out of his dripping jacket, then struggled to unbutton his denim shirt. Seth saw his older brother’s eyes flick to Nero, saw the man’s calculating gaze as he looked over his horse, checking for injuries, Seth knew, while ignoring his own.

“He’s fine,” Seth assured him, helping him get his boots off. “Not even a limp.”

“Damn horse,” Walker muttered but Seth could see the relief in the man’s eyes. The tight corners of his mouth didn’t relax, though. These days, they never did.

“We’ll stop here,” Austin declared, already getting a blanket out of his saddlebag.

“You can barely stand up. And don’t tell me you can ride. You need to stay on your feet and keep moving,” Austin argued.

Walker glared at him. “I have dry clothes in my pack. I can make it to—”

“No,” Austin bit out.

“I’ll go,” said Seth.

Both men looked at him.

Seth shrugged. “It’s not far. And the terrain’s easy. I’ll meet up with the others, we’ll get the herd, and bring them back here.” He said it as though it was a done deal, as though he’d find the herd, alive. Seth couldn’t allow himself to imagine otherwise right now. He’d almost lost his brother. He’d already lost his father. If they lost Snake River Ranch, too, well, it just couldn’t happen.

Walker finally nodded. “Head to the Gulch then. Find the rest of the herd and drive them back here. We’ll camp here tonight and cross in the morning. We need as many riders as we can get out there tonight. Every night we leave the herd unprotected, the more we lose to the wolves and cats. Go. But get the head count,” he told Seth, “and radio it to us before you start back with them.”

Seth nodded and swung back up into the saddle. “We’ll be back,” he promised, and dug his heels into Choctaw, feeling bad about making the horse work any harder than was necessary. But he needed to see for himself if Snake River Ranch had any kind of future at all.

Chapter Two

Rowan Archer checked her watch, twisting her wrist, and splashed coffee down the front of her scrubs. “Damn it,” she hissed, and snatched at the paper towel rack beside her. Unfortunate as it was (and hot) at least it had the bonus of waking her up. The mental fog of her mid-shift slump cleared away as she swiped angrily at the growing stain on her sickly green colored shirt.

It might have been an improvement.

It was late, almost three am. The beginning of her shift had seen one fall on a patch of ice, one snow-shoveling induced heart-attack, and two colds that had been ignored for too long and were skirting pneumonia. She’d missed her usual tuck-in call to Willow, again. Rowan only worked two overnight shifts a week but they were brutal here in Cheyenne. Too many people used the ER as their general practitioner. She hardly ever had time for a real break, only coffee standing up in the nurse’s lounge, which was just as well, she figured. If she sat for too long, she might fall asleep.

Shift work was killing her.

Slowly.

And she’d only been a registered nurse for less than a year.

She drained the mug knowing the caffeine rush would carry her to the end of the shift. It was only a few more hours, and if the place quieted down so she could catch up on all her charts, she might even get to leave a few minutes early. She set the cup in the communal sink, intending to wash it later, and headed back out to the nurse’s station.

Sandy, the head nurse, was on the phone, looking displeased. When she hung up, she looked at Rowan. “We’ve got a sideswipe coming in,” the haggard woman told her. “Drunk driver versus Minivan. Lacerations, minor injuries, for everyone.”

Rowan sighed and nodded. On the one hand, no one had been seriously injured (or killed) but it was looking like a long night with multiple patients.

Ten minutes later, the double doors of Cheyenne Regional’s ER opened and vics started pouring in. There were six in all, an elderly man who smelled like a brewery, even from Rowan’s relatively safe distance, and a family of five: Mom, Dad, Grandma, and two kids. Mom gave the old man a murderous look as the paramedics wheeled him in on a gurney, then she refocused on holding a gauze pad to her small daughter’s arm.

Rowan felt a spike of anger as she watched them. The girl was about Willow’s age, also with dark hair. Rowan’s heart knocked hard against her chest to think she could have been lost, in an instant, due to someone else’s poor choices. She gave the woman a reassuring look, a mother’s knowing, concerned glance, even as the lady looked like she might strangle the man who’d caused all their pain.

Rowan could relate to that look. She’d do anything for Willow, to keep her happy and safe.

Sandy took charge immediately, directing Rowan to take the offending man to Exam Room One, separating him from the family he’d plowed into.

Rowan bit her tongue as she realized that meant she was stuck treating him herself. She held the door for the paramedics as they hustled him into the small room and watched them, jealously, as they disappeared just as quickly.

The man groaned loudly.

“Just lie back,” Rowan told him sharply, accentuating the command with the snap of her blue latex gloves.

He made another sound, low in his throat. Without missing a beat, Rowan reached for an emesis basin and held it out. She turned away just as he vomited, half on his shirt, half into the pan. In several years she’d gotten used to the blood, and other human secretions, but vomit could sometimes still do her in.

She set the basin aside, and shoved another, clean one into his chest until he had the presence of mind to hold onto it himself. Behind her the door opened. When Rowan turned, she saw a uniformed policeman filling the open space.

“I’ve got to take him in,” he said in a gravel tone.

Rowan picked up some tweezers and a clean steel bowl. “Not until I dig this glass out of his forehead,” she replied.

The cop frowned, looking from the drunk to her. “But he—”

“I don’t care!” Rowan snapped. “I still have to treat him. Shut the door,” she said firmly. “You can wait on the other side.”

The frown deepened but he moved back, closing the door behind him.

Rowan couldn’t tell if he really was waiting outside the door or had moved away entirely. She turned back to the old man and she could practically see the fog lift from his beer battered brain as he realized he was in serious trouble.

Wyoming had made drunk driving illegal, finally, in 2007. Apparently this guy hadn’t gotten the memo. Or perhaps he was too far gone, too set in his bad habits to ever change them now. Rowan guessed this wasn’t his first brush with the law.

He cast about wildly, gaze landing on the door on the other side of the room. “Gotta…go,” he half-whispered as he eyed the exit, which was not really an exit at all. It just led to a shared supply room.

“Sit down!” Rowan ordered. “Or I’ll get out the restraints and tie you down.”

The man reared back and eyed her warily.

Rowan might have been slight of frame, but she knew how to use her voice and demeanor to take charge of any given situation. It was a lesson well-learned in nursing school and she resorted to it often, though she had to admit that right this moment her temper was getting the better of her.

She’d do her job, to the best of her ability, and that included minimal distractions. But he was for damn sure going to jail tonight after she patched him up, even if she had to drive him there herself, which she hoped she didn’t, because she didn’t want beer-stank and vomit in her car.

Maybe it was from raising Willow mostly alone, with only one set of eyes to watch her, doubly vigilant, doubly careful, always worried that one parent wasn’t enough. But seeing that little girl with the bleeding arm, looking so much like Willow, triggered every hot button Rowan had. “I don’t know what’s wrong with people like you,” she said, because she was tired and because it was true. “You could’ve killed that whole family. If you want to die, drink yourself to death in front of the television. Don’t take anyone else with you.”

His face crumpled and Rowan knew she’d gone too far, said too much. When he started to cry, with long trails of saliva dripping from his lower lip, she handed him a paper towel by way of apology.

She had to get off nights. She just wasn’t herself. Or perhaps she was too much herself, a distilled version of the practicality and hardheadedness that had gotten them, herself and her daughter, this far in life, without any handouts. There was no point in taking any of it out on this man. It looked as though he was in for a rough ride anyway, when Rowan was done with him.

He deserved it, but she didn’t have to be cruel about it.

She finished picking glass out of the man’s forehead and applied antibiotic ointment to the tiny wounds. When she was done, she pushed her stool away from him, mostly to get away from the smell, picked up his chart, and stepped out into the hall to mark her progress.

The officer wasn’t there but the sound of shoes on the floor made Rowan look up. Sandy ducked into Exam Room One, the room Rowan had just vacated. She heard the sounds of complaint wafting through the air in slurred but muffled English. Sandy stepped back, closing the door again without comment, and searched the hall until her hard gaze landed on Rowan.

Shit, Rowan muttered to herself.

As the Head Nurse started toward her, Rowan knew from Sandy’s quick pace and stiff spine that she was in trouble. The drunk driver had ratted her out for her unprofessional behavior. There’d be a warning, hopefully just verbal, hopefully Sandy wouldn’t chart it in Rowan’s personnel file. Fat chance. Sandy charted every sneeze.

As the older woman approached, though, she looked pained and Rowan wondered if she was in more trouble than she thought. She racked her brain trying to think what else she could’ve done, even with her crazy schedule of day care and babysitters she was never late, hardly ever called in sick.

Her stomach roiled, much like the driver’s, as she looked down at the paperwork in her hand. A chart. She’d screwed up a chart because she was tired. Patients died that way. It happened more often than it should have in nursing. It should never happen at all. Judging by the look on Sandy’s face, the determined line of the woman’s thin lips, this was bad.

“Was it—?” Rowan couldn’t think who she’d dispensed meds to tonight. Which cases? Which drugs? Nothing had required a second key. Nothing had needed secondary approval. Nothing was fatal, even in incorrect doses. “Was it—?”

“Your sister called. Rowan, he’s had a heart attack. He’s at the medical center in Star Valley. They’re prepping him for surgery.”

Rowan’s head swam. “How bad is it?” she demanded. “Have they already given thrombolytics? Are they—?”

“I don’t know.”

Rowan glared at her.

“I’m not lying. Your sister didn’t know. They only just wheeled him in a few minutes ago. Rowan, I’m sorry.”

Rowan passed Sandy the chart and the pen with her shaking hand. It dropped on the floor with a clatter and rolled away on the slightly uneven tile. “I have to go,” she declared.

Sandy was already nodding.

Rowan darted down the hall, not bothering to clock out. She passed the rattled family from the vehicle accident, huddled together in the corner looking worn and confused. She felt a kinship toward them, as late night visits to the Emergency Room so often did to people. This time, though, she was on the wrong side—not giving news but getting it—and having nothing but unanswered questions to show for it.

The drive to her apartment was quick and easy this time of night. She gunned the engine into the empty spot closest to her door, spinning her tires on the unsalted slush. She managed to bring the whole thing to a stop just before she hit the curb and jumped out while the whole car was shaking.

Moira gave a small cry and leapt off the couch as Rowan her burst through the door, keys in hand, fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry!” Rowan gasped. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Oh, my God! What’s wrong?”

Rowan had to pull herself together, relying on her training to keep herself calm as she explained to the situation to the twenty year old babysitter.

Moira understood right away and began gathering her things to leave early.

Rowan pulled out her wallet and frowned at its meager contents. Normally she paid the girl on Fridays but doubted that they’d be home by the end of the week. She didn’t want to owe the woman money. Rowan had been broke too many times herself. Stifling a sigh, she pulled some bills out and offered them.

Moira took them with a rueful smile and the uncomfortable gratitude that came when one poor person paid another out of pocket.

Rowan tried not to think about the cost of the unexpected trip. She showed Moira out and headed straight to her bedroom where she drew out her tattered suitcase and laid it on the bed. In went jeans and sweaters, haphazard, unfolded. She shoved her toothbrush in the side pocket then stared at the bulging container. Without realizing, she’d packed almost all her clothes. She didn’t have that many.

She stuffed Willow’s clean clothes from the laundry basket into the worn, pink, Disney Princess backpack and loaded it all into the car, letting the little girl sleep as long as possible. Then, for one brief moment in all the chaos, Rowan stood at the front of her almost five year old’s bed, watching her sleep peacefully.

She wished for the millionth time that she had family in Cheyenne, a place to leave Willow so the little girl wouldn’t be subjected to all this. But that had been the point in coming to Cheyenne, that no one would know them. And though it was still Wyoming, and Rowan got the occasional side eye for being a single mother, tongues wagged less in Cheyenne than in Star Valley.

In four years Rowan had managed to keep her trips back to the farm restricted to summer vacation and Christmas (if the weather was good). Willow loved the farm, but had never been into town.

With everything falling apart around them, she hoped to God she could keep the girl hidden away.

Rowan finally roused her with a gentle shake. “Baby,” she said quietly. “Baby, wake up.”

Willow groaned and turned away.

“Sweetie, you have to get up,” Rowan insisted. “We have to go.”

The little girl opened her eyes and squinted. “Mama,” she protested. “It’s dark out.”

“I know, baby,” said Rowan lifting Willow up. “But we have to go. We have to get you dressed then get in the car.”

Willow’s nose wrinkled as though the idea of trudging outside, in the cold, and the dark, was distasteful.

Rowan agreed.

The car was already warmed up by the time she put Willow in her booster seat. The little girl gazed up at her with soulful brown eyes that haunted Rowan sometimes, though she tried never to show it. “Where are we going, Mama?”

“To the farm, baby.”

Willow’s eyes lit up. “To the farm? With Kinka? And Pop-Pop?”

Rowan hesitated not knowing what to say. “Yes,” she finally replied. “To the farm.” She figured that was enough for now.

The drive was long and Rowan was forced to white-knuckle it all the way along the highway that had once been dubbed the Snow Chi Minh Trail. Drift fences had reduced the danger of icy conditions these days, but Rowan was still on constant watch for antelope, which despite their diminutive size could create an unbelievable amount of damage hitting one with a car. Driving at night on the near-deserted roads of Wyoming’s open country was never easy, or recommended. The only people on the road this late at night were long-haul truckers, and even they were few and far between.

Rowan stayed under the speed limit, stopping for gas in Laramie, then again in Rock Springs, just to get a Coke and keep herself awake and racking up the credit card she’d worked so hard to pay off just last fall. Willow was bundled up and under her favorite Dora the Explorer blanket, so Rowan rolled the driver’s side window down and let the cold night air keep her alert.

They reached the medical center a little before noon and Rowan slid her Toyota into the space closest to the ER doors that wasn’t handicapped. She unbelted Willow, hoisted the little girl onto her shoulder, and hurried along the sidewalk.

As the glass doors whispered shut behind her, she instinctively tugged down Willow’s hood, covering her sleeping daughter’s face as she carried her inside. She located the lobby’s small reception desk and headed straight for it, identification badge in hand. “Mac Archer,” she said as she slid it across the counter.

The badge worked as well as any enchanted talisman, gaining Rowan access to her father’s chart and intake information. The duty nurse handed it back with a matter-of-fact nod. “Paul Renner is in with him, prepping him for the surgery.”

“Paul Renner?” Rowan’s eyebrows lifted.

“He’s the anesthesiologist on duty.”

Rowan blinked at the woman. It was odd to hear of an old classmate being a specialist, and an anesthesiologist no less, though she supposed if she’d been able to attend nursing school full-time right from the start, she’d be further along in her own career by bow. Paul Renner, though? Wow. Rowan had a vivid memory of Paul and a beer bong senior year. Honestly, though, she hadn’t been too much better and she considered herself a decent nurse–when she wasn’t yelling at drunks.

“Paul Renner?” she repeated, hoping she didn’t reveal too much of her trepidation. Beggars, after all, couldn’t be choosers. She was grateful that a surgeon had even been on shift so as not to waste precious minutes life-lining him to Cheyenne or Denver.

“He’s good,” the nurse assured her.

Rowan nodded, taking the endorsement as gospel. She had no other choice. She was about to ask after Emma, if her sister had been given a quiet room to wait, when behind her someone called her name.

Troy, Emma’s husband, came toward her, two coffees in hand.

Rowan sighed in relief at seeing a friendly face. He led her to a small room where Emma, eyes puffy and hair uncombed, grabbed her into a fierce hug, nearly crushing Willow between them.

Rowan finally stepped back and laid the girl down on a threadbare sofa, gratefully taking Troy’s offered coffee. He excused himself to get a replacement.

Emma ducked her head guiltily, still incensed, though. “Five hours he laid in bed, thinking he pulled a muscle in his shoulder! Unbelievable! And who does he call then? Me! Not an ambulance. Not Dr. Webber. Me!”

Rowan grimaced. Their father was a master at ignoring the sometimes painfully obvious until it just went away.

“You look terrible,” Emma said suddenly.

Rowan heaved a sigh and rubbed her neck. “I was on night shift when I got your message.”

“You should go get some rest,” Emma declared.

“I was about to say the same to you. It’ll be hours before he’s out,” Rowan told her, glancing nervously at the door. “But someone should stay. In case.”

“In case he doesn’t make it,” Emma added grimly.

“Don’t say that!” Rowan snapped.

It was Emma’s turn to hush her. Willow stirred anyway, almost opened her eyes, but went back to snoring softly.

Emma sighed. “You two are so alike,” she said while gazing at her niece.

Rowan frowned, knowing Emma didn’t mean Willow. As a nurse, Rowan was practical about a lot of things, but not her family. She missed them too much. Living in Cheyenne felt too much like self-imposed exile, which was exactly what it was, if she was being honest. The thought of losing one of them, after having been away so long and having missed them so terribly, was too much to take.

“I’m sorry,” said Emma, before Rowan could argue. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

The two of them sank down into chairs and sipped their coffees in silence. The rush of adrenaline that had carried Rowan this far dissipated quickly. Now a dull buzzing was growing behind her eyes and she was struggling to keep them open.

Almost three hours later, the door opened (it must have been for the second time because Troy was in the room and Rowan hadn’t heard him come in). Paul Renner was standing before them, looking almost exactly like he had in high school, but now with blonde hair that was thinning a little on top. He smiled at her, though, and Rowan took it for a good sign as she hauled herself out of her chair.

She listened intently, translating for Troy and Emma as Paul told them it was a double bypass and that the surgeon was reasonably pleased with the results. There was a slight blockage in a third artery, and they’d go in for an angioplasty in a few weeks, rather than take more veins out of his legs for the graft. Dad was still out from the anesthesia, but his blood pressure and heart rate were encouraging.

Rowan said a silent prayer of thanks that the beer bong hadn’t taken Paul’s last few brain cells. The duty nurse had been right, he seemed to be sharp, with a good head on his shoulders. Rowan shook his hand before he walked out the door. He looked like he might say something, about high school, or old times, but given the circumstances, he must’ve thought better of it.

He left after explaining the nurses were checking Dad into his room.

“I’m tired,” Emma declared, then looked at Rowan. “Go home. Get some rest.”

“I think you have that backwards.”

But Emma shook her head. “No, you go,” she insisted, nodding to Willow. “This is no place to rest, even for a kid. Take her to the house, take a nap, both of you. I’ll come around in a few hours and we can swap.”

Rowan wanted to argue. As a sometimes-night-shift nurse she was far more used to long stretches of wakefulness than Emma, but the drive had been long, and she was close to stretching out on the tile floor and shutting the world out. “Okay,” she finally relented, gathering Willow in her arms. She was more than grateful to be offered a few hours’ worth of sleep, even if she wasn’t entirely certain she could relax enough to take advantage of it.

She could check on the sheep, too, and get them their feed. She tugged the hood down over Willow’s face and hurried back out the hospital doors. There was nothing she could do here at the moment so it made more sense to go where she could be the most useful.